I came across this poem when I was about thirteen, and loved it. The longing to be Somewhere Else was very powerful then, and the Garden of the Hesperides was high on my list of desirable places.

The Hesperides

The Northwind fall’n, in the newstarrèd night
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond
The hoary promontory of Soloë
Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,
Between the Southern and the Western Horn,
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,
Nor melody o’ the Lybian lotusflute
Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope
That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,
Came voices, like the voices in a dream,
Continuous, till he reached the outer sea.

SONG

  I

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,
Guard it well, guard it warily,
Singing airily,
Standing about the charmèd root.
Round about all is mute,
As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,
As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.
Crocodiles in briny creeks
Sleep and stir not: all is mute.
If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,
We shall lose eternal pleasure,
Worth eternal want of rest.
Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure
Of the wisdom of the West.
In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three
(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.
For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth;
Evermore it is born anew;
And the sap to three-fold music floweth,
From the root
Drawn in the dark,
Up to the fruit,
Creeping under the fragrant bark,
Liquid gold, honeysweet thro’ and thro’.
Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,
Looking warily
Every way,
Guard the apple night and day,
Lest one from the East come and take it away.

( More )

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

from ‘The Hesperides’


tag: Hesperides

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January was not a good month. No catastrophes or serious disasters, but rather a lot of vexation, stress and hassle. (February has been better, though I have been struggling to catch up with Stuff.)

Anyway, throughout January poetry about Wishing to Be Somewhere Else kept floating into the back of my head, and notably the following Chorus from Euripides’ Hippolytus. Which I have always wanted to translate properly, so this weekend I indulged myself.

The Chorus of Women of Troezen see that catastrophe threatens:

I wish I were up in the high cliffs
hidden inside some secret hole:
that God would turn me to a feathered bird
among the flying flocks;
and I would soar above the sea-swell
of the Adriatic coasts
and the delta of the Po,
where, grieving for Phaethon,
the Sun’s unhappy daughters drop amber-gleaming tears
into the purple wave.

And if I could I’d make my way
to the coast of the singing Hesperides
where the apples grow;
beyond that point
the lord of the purple sea gives sailors no further passage,
but I’d press on and come
to the awe-compelling boundary of the sky,
held up by giant Atlas;
springs of ambrosia
flow past the couches in the house of Zeus,
and there the hallowed earth, giver of life,
bestows increase of blessings on the gods.

Euripides (c. 485–c. 406 BCE)

from Hippolytus (428 BCE)

trans. Gillian Spraggs

© Gillian Spraggs, 2007

By most people’s standards I am not well travelled; but long ago I saw the Aegean in the evening light, and at that time of day it is indeed purple, or so it seemed to me.

tags: otherworld journey | Hesperides

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